Until I Return
Not to interrupt, but I left myself somewhere.
Perhaps you have seen,
A short, rather awkward woman who haphazardly stares.
Or maybe you have noticed a poet left on a bench? We should find her before it rains.
If I called you back, would you answer and tell me
That you do not accept unsolicited sales
Or that you’ve already donated to the Junior League?
Would you even remember
Telling me I was magical
Or did you say that to the air that was shaped like a person at dusk on a night that started too late and was destined to never end well?
My writing appears on a page, like I’ve moved a planchette on a Ouija board with my faint little hand.
I can walk almost through them, disappear as I stand.
Have you seen a lost poet? Am I underground? Geocached? Staring up at the dirt as a prelude to what passes? Maybe it has happened before.
Have you witnessed a lost dead poet laughing, of late?
I hear that her voice haunts the hideaways and corners, and ting ting tings like a cat licking a water bowl.
Some said her heart had too much iron. Some said she had no rhythm. Some said she smiled at inappropriate times.
One even said she doesn’t know how to rhyme.
The seance has spanned decades by now. Let’s hold hands before she blows out our candles.
Two together four together six together…eight? Was she in the class that learned how to count? Was she there by the window, inside it, antagonized by sun beams, heated and trapped?
Protect the candles at all cost. Do not let her feeble wind tip the flame.
Have you seen a lost dead poet laughing someplace?
Have I haunted our halls?
Have I spelled enough words to transmit? Did even a bit of it come through?
Would you even know me if I formed into matter, spoke to you, and held my amphibian hands to your heart?
Do ghosts get lost in the dark?
I know she must be near now. She had four feet including her shadow. Surely, that’s sufficient to be real. Blocking the sunlight. Multiplying on the pavement.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. M-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter-I-Humpback-Humpback-I.
Counting is for the living.
Have you encountered the ghost of a poet? Did you rest your book on her back?
In the plate glass you can see her as your face and the others walk past.
She chose to be here, immaterial and reflected by the mundane, to be seen but inaccessible.
Did I leave her somewhere, or was it you who did that?
"Until I Return" by Echo Sayr . This poem is impressively evocative, brilliantly using language to create an atmosphere of ethereal longing and haunting self-reflection. The metaphors are unique and compelling, humanizing the spectral presence of the poet. The piece invites multiple readings due to its layered depth.
It's a mesmerizing exploration of the poetic quest for self-understanding in an expansive world.
"Until I Return" by Echo Sayr and "Hooked" by Sadhbh’s Substack are merely the opening verses to a grander symphony. The "Power of Poetry" anthology invites you to embark on an immersive odyssey of verse and sentiment. Let our poets lead you through this exhilarating exploration of emotion and rhythm. Every poem is a universe of feeling, ready to be unveiled.
So, are you ready to dive in?
Embark with us on this profound exploration into the very soul of poetry.
Just the thought of embarking on this profound exploration into the very soul of poetry gives me goosebumps
Wonderfully said